Short Story: Dear Santa

Short Story: Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

And so there we were, a week before Christmas and I was once again in the Christmas cheer, happily alone with a glass of whiskey, freezing my arse off and singing to the Pogues on repeat, joining in on the only line I knew.

‘You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot!’

I have a lot to ask from you this year, dear Santa.

I pulled the cord on my Santa suit, which I originally bought to impress the kids at work. Somewhere between the pouring of the whiskey I had managed to turn the red jacket into a slutty night gown and Panjita was now being greeted by my ever-shrinking breasts. I took the pen.

No. 1 on the list this year: Stop my boobs from turning into withered old pancakes. Please return them to the voluptuous melons they once were.

‘Errrrm.... a few?’ I had to question it myself. Only the bottle would tell, so I grabbed it from the hidden cupboard under the sink and jingled it as evidence. ‘Oh yes,’ I grin, ‘It does appear I’ve had quite a few!’

‘Po, that was for the egg-nog. And will you please get dressed. Your chest is protruding.’

‘You think my chest is protruding! Let’s take the Comparabra and see what once was!’

I took last year’s bra and held it up next to the Saggabra.

‘This is what I have been reduced to Panjita! This saggy granny contraption. I could once fit into the Comparabra, but now it’s only use is for catching my tears!’

She raised an eyebrow.

No. 2 on the list this year: If I’m going to remain single, I want to be able to wallow in my own drunken self-pity in peace.

‘So, you did get something for secret Santa didn’t you?’

‘What the fook is Secret Santa?’

‘So you didn’t buy anyone a gift?’

‘What the FOOOOK is Secret Santa?’

‘Oh, so you didn’t. Well I have a Michael Bublé CD you can wrap up if you need something?’

‘FOOKING Secret Santa, you have got to be kidding me! I just don’t need this right now!’

I quickly whacked on my coat and boots, ready to head out and find a crappy gift to anonymously offer a person I probably didn’t even like.

‘You are a loser sometimes you know,’ Panjita sighed.

‘I’m a loser because I won’t give somebody Michael Bublé for Christmas. Yes, that’s right Pan. You’re absolutely right.’

I stormed out of the door, headed for 7/11.

No. 3 on the list this year: Anything but Michael Bublé. I’m already pretty close to contemplating suicide. Don’t push me.

Bloody Taiwanese 7/11. It sells everything from fried gluten in peanut oil to condoms that don’t fit anyone, and I’ve definitely met some men who would make ideal guinea pigs for that sort of test.

Try and buy something for under 500 NT that you can wrap up in two minutes, attempting to make it look like you actually care, then 7/11 is absolutely useless. A painful half-hour of wandering around the weird and wonderful aisles, still half-dressed in my Santa suit, and my greatest discovery was another bottle of whiskey – totally for myself. Oh, I did find a banana case, which blew any hope of me having a magical Christmas this year right out the window.

No. 4 on the list this year: Please oh please, let that excitingly shaped gift under the tree be something which vibrates, pulsates or rotates. Please don’t let it be a yellow box in which I can transport my lunch.

Who had I been kidding all that time. Panjita wouldn’t do the unthinkable, she wouldn’t shamefully venture into the sex store at the end of our street, make the greatest purchase ever known to woman. Every time we wander past, while my eyes are lighting up like we’re at the gates to Disney Land, Panjita is tugging at my coat, giving me a disapproving eyebrow and dragging me over the pedestrian crossing to safety. I should have known full well that all I’ll be unwrapping this year is a novelty banana case.

In the end, I grabbed a pair of gloves and the cliché box of Ferrero Rocher. Who cared that much anyway, I didn’t have to own up to it. In return I ended up with a pair of leg-warmers and Panjita received a communist watch with the face of some dodgy Chinese ruler. I had been wrong. These guests were definitely the kind of people who deserved Michael Bublé.

That was it. After allowing the visitors to each sit on my lap and tell me how bad they had been (in my guesses, it wasn’t that much), I was out of there.

No. 5 on the list this year: If someone is going to be bad this year, I think it should be me. Of course, I will be receiving bugger-all and I do have some bad plans for a certain bar man.

So, I made my way to FM Bar & Grill, wearing my elastic beard as a disguise so that Panjita wouldn’t notice. In crawling distance from my apartment, I slumped myself up against the counter and didn’t even have to ask for the usual.

‘Whiskey on the rocks for Cinderella?’

My bartender calls me this because I am forever leaving things at his establishment – my coat, my keys, my soul.

‘Screw the rocks. I just want the whiskey.’

‘Hard week?’

I proceeded to share with him the stories of miniature condoms, the Saggabra and banana shaped packages.

‘It’s on the house.’

And so, Santa, I only have five requests

I don’t think I’m asking for a lot.

Some people are asking for puppies and designer handbags, whilst others are out there receiving communist watches and shedding tears over their small breasts and penises.

I just don’t think you’re spreading the love evenly.

I’ve put in a great deal of effort to participate in the Christmas cheer this year. I vamped up your attire with a pair of black stockings and the little cleavage I have left. I allowed Panjita to invite a load of people into my home who were neither naughty or nice. I have done my bit.

But I swear.

This time next year, I want to be in that Comparabra.

I want a mysterious fire to start in our apartment which only burns Panjita’s Bublé CD.

I want this Secret Santa malarkey over with. Do your own job.

I don’t want to be asking for a dildo. I want a real life specimen.

Most of all, I want to be able to drink my whiskey in peace.

Many thanks, Po Poulain.

P.S - This year there won’t be any mince pies.

I ate them all in when I came home from FM Bar & Grill in a drunken binge.

Feel free, however, to help yourself to a complimentary banana case. Unless it comes with batteries, I have absolutely no use for it.